


kid full of history

by ceserabeau



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Dark, M/M, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a kid at the bar, messy hair and huge brown eyes. He’s perfect, just perfect, and the way he’s leaning into the guy next to him at the bar makes him even more so.<br/>Derek’s hand aches to slide around the pale column of his throat and choke him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Handsome Stranger Called Death_ by Foe
> 
> Inspired by [this](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/post/77159364024) over on tumblr. I can't believe I actually wrote a serial killer AU.

Kate sees it in him first, the darkness that lurks within.

“Let me help you,” she whispers in his ear. “Let me teach you.”

In the end, she’s the one that douses his home but he’s the one that lights the match.

-

Derek’s in a bar in Memphis, packed with college kids. The air smells like cheap perfume and cheaper beer. It’s the perfect hunting ground: he blends in well enough and no one’s looking too closely at who their friends are leaving with.

There's a kid at the bar, messy hair and huge brown eyes. He looks too young to be there but there's a beer in his hand and he's slumped over the bar a little, eyes unfocused and mouth curled in a drunken grin. He's perfect, just perfect, and the way he's leaning into the guy next to him at the bar makes him even more so. Derek's hand aches to slide around the pale column of his throat and choke him.

So he goes to him, shoulders in between the kid and his friend, smiles apologetically as his beer sloshes all over bar.

“Sorry,” he mumbles and ducks his head shyly, “can I get you another?”

The kid turns that grin on him and yes, _yes_ , this is the one, Derek can feel it in his bones. Tonight’s going to be good.

He buys the kid a drink or two before he makes a move, fingers sliding over his hip, tongue touching his ear lobe as he leans in to speak to him. The flush rising up the kid’s neck is beautiful, and Derek tells him at much. The kid blushes more.

“Want to get out of here?” he asks, and the kid nods enthusiastically, brushing along the hem of Derek’s shirt with fumbling fingers.

“Do you need to tell anyone you’re leaving?” he asks and this time the kid shakes his head, and that’s even better.

Outside, Derek leads the kid to his car and presses him against it, bites at his lips until the guy is trembling against him, hips rocking into his over and over. He even tilts his head back so Derek can bite up his neck, teeth sinking in to bring the blood to the surface. Boy, was he was wrong about tonight: it’s not going to be good, it’s going to be _amazing_.

-

The kid gives him a sloppy blowjob up against the motel door, mouth hot and wet over Derek’s cock. His lips look fantastic stretched around his dick and he moans whenever Derek tugs his hair. It’s not enough to make him come, so he pulls him up and licks the taste of himself from the kid’s mouth before pulling his clothes off.

Derek’s surprised by what he finds: the baggy shirt gave the impression of skin and bones but the kid is all toned muscle and tanned skin. _Maybe he’ll put up a fight_ , Derek thinks, and his dick twitches in anticipation. He likes it when they fight back.

He trips the kid onto the bed and he goes down easily, clambering up to the pillows while Derek strips. When he’s naked he climbs on top of the kid, pins him down with strong hands and bites along his chest. No need to worry about marks; there won’t be much skin left when he’s done.

The kid doesn’t seem to care that Derek’s drawing blood, just moans at every nip of his teeth on pale skin. Doesn’t like it gentle then. Derek grabs the lube on the table, and starts with two fingers, jamming them in hard and unrelenting until the kid’s writhing underneath him, twitching and groaning.

While the kid’s distracted, Derek gets his other hand around his throat, fits it up under his jaw and presses down. The body beneath him tenses, pushing up into it for a moment as a moan stutters from the kid’s lips.

Then he realises what Derek’s doing and his body bucks and twists, fighting. Derek holds him down – this is hardly his first time – but the kid is stronger than he looks. An elbow catches him across the temple and his grip loosens for a split second, but that’s all the kid needs, throwing his weight up until he flips Derek off the bed and onto the floor.

Derek tries to get up but the kid’s on top of him fast, faster than he should at that level of drunk. The kid presses his hands into the carpet, thumbs in the pressure points to keep him still, trapping Derek securely beneath him with his weight pinning him in place. He’s stark naked and grinning, elated and deadly, staring down at Derek with sharp eyes.

“Well, well, well,” the kid says in a saccharine voice, “what do we have here?”

Derek can only lie there and watch this boy watching him, something like panic shifting in his chest at how quickly he’s gone from predator to prey. The kid just tilts his head calmly, examining him from all angles.

“You’re the guy,” he says eventually. “I’ve been following you in the news. You’re that killer.”

Derek bucks violently because shit, _shit_ , who the hell is this kid and what happened to the slutty drunk guy in his bed?

“Hey now,” the kid says, fingers digging in, “don’t worry. I’m not gonna call the cops.”

Derek finds his second wind at that, and he manages to jerk up hard enough that his forehead smashes into the kid’s nose. Blood explodes, and the kid falls back, rolling across the carpet. Derek chases after him, going for a tackle, but the kid’s quick.

He’s on the other side of the bed before Derek can blink and there’s a knife in his hand, pulled from god knows where, held out like a warning. He’s not waving it around, all bravado; his hand is steady and his grip is sure. He knows his way around a blade: Derek would bet money that he’s used it on someone before.

“I’m Stiles,” the kid says.

There’s red smeared across his mouth and jaw, a stark contrast to the bright white of his grin. And he is grinning, wide and ecstatic, like this is the best day of his life.

Derek can’t help wondering who the hell he picked up in that bar.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing about serial killers as a distraction from my thesis, what am I doing with my life?

Stiles makes his first kill age fourteen.

It’s an accident – well, mostly an accident. He’s in town and there’s this guy, yammering away on his cell phone, barging people out the way, a real asshole, and he happens to pause next to Stiles at the crosswalk. So Stiles bumps the guy, only to make him drop his cell, but he misjudges just how hard he can push.

The next thing anyone knows, the guy’s careening into oncoming traffic and Stiles gets to watch him being dragged under a bus.

The police decide it was a mistake on the guy’s part. He was looking at his phone after all, not paying attention to his surroundings, and they never look at Stiles because well, _accident_. They take his statement and let him go, and just like that it’s over, on to the next.

Except not for Stiles, because his whole world view shifts at that moment. The police leave the scene, the body is taken away, the witnesses disperse. And he’s left standing at a crossroads, with the knowledge of what he can do singing electric through his veins.

-

Stiles’ dad is the Sherriff and that makes his life so much easier. He learns all about police procedures at a young age, fingerprints and DNA and the best way to wipe down a crime scene. He’s read enough reports to know how they think, how they work their cases. His dad thinks he’s interested because he wants to be a cop too, but really it’s just the best training he could ever hope for, staring at the blood and guts of endless crime scene photographs.

So Stiles is good at this, so very good. He picks the right victims, outsiders and loners, easy targets with easy suspects, and never ever people he knows. He randomises the method, a knife here, a bat there, to keep them guessing. Sometimes he stages it as a home invasion, or a random assault, or on one occasion a gang hit.

But Beacon Hills isn’t a huge town and there’s a fire in his stomach that only grows the more he bodies he makes. So he writes his dad a note to say goodbye, packs a bag and drives off into the sunset.

It sounds like a happy ever after and it is, for him. Not for anyone else.

-

Life on the road is simple, easy. Stiles has a bag full of toys, ropes and knives and handcuffs, all sorts of exciting things that make his heart race just looking at them. He covers his tracks well enough. No one links the disappearance in San Diego to the stabbings in Albuquerque or the strangulations in Little Rock. Thank god for the internet, because it makes his job easier: he just researches local murders and copies the MO, because that’s the easiest way to avoid any suspicion, by blaming it on someone else who’s slopping enough to not hide their methods.

So when he gets to Memphis and there’s already someone killing co-eds, Stiles is pretty damn happy. The only problem he has is that this killer’s bathing them in acid, and he can’t quite figure out what type to use. He’s running low on drain cleaner, and sulphuric takes too long. So he figures he’ll leave whoever he picks up half destroyed and no one will be any the wiser.

Stiles goes to a bar, a total dive that doesn’t even check ID, and sets up camp on one of the few spare stools to scope out his next target. He makes sure to spill some beer on himself so that he smells drunker than he is, and slouches on the bar like it’s the only thing holding him up. It works like a charm.

There’s a frat boy leaning into him, big blue eyes and full lips, and Stiles is halfway through thinking about how good it’ll feel to bite down on them until he tastes blood, when someone shoulders their way between them and Stiles’ drink splashes all over the wood.

“Sorry,” the guy mumbles, ducking his head. _How cute_ , Stiles thinks, and then the guy looks up and he’s caught by how green the guy’s eyes are. “Can I get you another one?”

Stiles can’t help grinning at him, making it sloppy at the edges, and sizes the guy up. He’s big, a wall of muscle wrapped in a leather jacket; the parts of skin Stiles can see are tanned, and he’s smiling smugly at Stiles, obviously buying his act hook, line and sinker.

It takes a couple of drinks before the guy makes a move. He leans in and flicks his tongue against Stiles’ ear as his fingers drag slowly over his hip bone.

“You’re beautiful,” the guy says, voice low and gravely. Stiles has to hold back his laugh, lets a blush rise instead. “Want to get out of here?”

Stiles nods as enthusiastically as he can. He’s already hard, has been for a while thinking about what he’s going to do to this guy. He’s got a knife in his boot and motel rooms are full of things that can be used as restraints.

He’s going to make this guy scream.

-

The guy is good, Stiles will give him that much. He fucks his mouth exactly the way Stiles wants him to, tugging on his hair until his scalp stings, forcing him down until he can barely breathe. Then, he practically throws Stiles onto the bed and pins him down, hard enough to bruise, sliding two fingers into him roughly.

And yes, _yes_ , that’s what he wants, wants it rough and unyielding, wants the guy to try to take control now so that later, when Stiles has him tied to the bed at the mercy of his knife, he knows just how little power he really has in this situation.

Then the guy tries to choke the life out of him, and Stiles definitely did not see that one coming.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha what am I even doing? This whole thing is so twisted, I swear I'm actually a normal person.

It starts in a motel room.

“Let’s team up,” Stiles says.

He’s still naked, the impression of Derek’s hand a bright red ring around his neck. He looks entirely too happy with the whole situation, like he’s actually enjoying being in a dingy motel room with a serial killer, and that makes Derek feel nervous like he never has before.

He likes them to fight back; he doesn’t like it when they gain the upper hand.

“What do you mean by ‘team up’?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Clearly we’re both into this. So let’s work together.”

There’s a pause, while Derek thinks about it, watching Stiles watch him. He’s been a bit lonely since Kate, and Stiles looks like he’d be a good time, in more ways than one. But he doesn’t want a proper partner, not again, not after the disaster that was Chicago.

“I have my own routine,” Derek finally says.

Stiles just rolls his eyes. “Yeah, dude, I know. I was going to copy it.”

He’s not sure if he should feel proud or annoyed at that. “Don’t call me dude,” he says instead.

As if he can sense Derek’s hesitation, Stiles finally sets his knife down on the dresser, still within easy reach but far enough away to make it seem less threatening.

“Look,” he says, “I’m not interested in killing you. And you’re not going to try and kill me now that you know I can probably beat you.”

“You couldn’t.” Because Stiles might have a knife, but Derek has at least 100 pounds and several years on this kid.

Stiles’ mouth quirks in a smile, smug and knowing. “We’ll see.”

Derek ignores the anger that flares in his gut and instead weighs it up for a moment. The idea of working with someone sets his teeth on edge a little, but he knows he can get out of control without someone by his side.

“I’ll think about it,” he says eventually.

Stiles grins. On anyone else it would be friendly, charming, but the edges are a little too sharp for Derek’s liking, a little too vicious. Derek’s surprised to find that he’s getting hot under the collar, turned on from the knowledge that Stiles is just as dangerous, just as deadly as he is.

Clearly Stiles can see that on his face, because he says, “While you're thinking about it, want to try the sex thing again? Maybe without the choking this time.”

Derek can’t find the right words to say no.

-

Stiles seems to think they’re the same: _killers_ , he says with that same deadly grin.

They’re not though, not really. Derek kills because he has to. It’s an itch under his skin, one he can’t scratch unless there’s a knife in his hand and a body at his feet. He knows that about himself, has accepted it as part of who he is and always will be. He has no delusions that it will ever change.

But Stiles, Stiles kills because he can. Because it’s a challenge. Because he likes the power it gives him. He’s always playing a game, every move carefully planned so that people only ever see what he wants them to see. Most of the time he pretends to be a child, with his baby face and wide eyes, so when he slides a blade into them or wraps a garrotte around their throat, it’s the ultimate reversal of power.

He’s only tries it on Derek that first time. To be fair Derek was doing the exact same thing to him, luring Stiles in with calculated movements, but now that they know what the other is neither of them tries doing it again.

-

Derek’s car is a monstrosity. A big, black, shiny monstrosity. Stiles hates it on sight.

“Overcompensating are we?” he says, and Derek cuts an annoyed glance his way. “You really don’t need to, man. Your dick is definitely big enough.”

The look on Derek’s face is either annoyed or constipated, Stiles can’t decide. Either way it’s amusing, and so is the way Derek is throwing his bag into the trunk with enough force to make the car rock slightly on its suspension.

“Chill out, man,” he says to Derek’s frown, “I’m messing with you.”

It makes him laugh at how easy it is to wind Derek up, no matter how much he pretends to be unaffected. When he’s not being a little bitch though, he does the strong, silent thing pretty well, which Stiles is prepared to admit he finds pretty hot. Especially when he knows exactly how strong Derek is – he hasn’t saved the memory of Derek’s hand around his throat in his wank bank for nothing.

“Which way do you want to go?” he asks as he unlocks his jeep.

Derek just shrugs. Stiles feels a brief tug of annoyance and wonders why he suggested working with someone who is clearly going to frustrate him no end. Then he thinks about Derek’s sharp grin at the bar last night, the way he held Stiles’ hips down with calloused palms, the blood he drew when he sank his teeth into Stiles’ neck. Oh yeah, that’s why.

So he squashes his irritation and instead weighs up the likelihood that Derek might try to run him off the road. The odds are 2:1, provided Stiles doesn’t do something to piss him off in the first twenty miles.

They get exponentially better after that.

-

When they hit a new city, they go their separate ways.

Derek has a routine and he likes to stick to it, no matter how much Stiles makes fun of him. He can’t go long between kills, so he scopes out the shady bars and dark alleys, picks his target, and the bodies start dropping by the end of the day. He’s always violent, messy, returns covered in blood and fucks Stiles into the mattress until he’s a sweaty, shaking mess.

Stiles has a routine too, even if it’s different to Derek’s. He’s meticulous in his planning, hacking the police database and searching for local murders, taking note of every little detail. Then he goes hunting, his kills starting after a few days. When he comes back, he’s unnaturally calm and he takes control of Derek like he was born to do it, pushing him to his knees and fucking his mouth until his lips are raw.

They never see each other’s kills, at least until their third week of travelling together when Stiles come back to their room to find a girl in the bathtub, long limbs spilling everywhere, her neck a jagged gaping mess. Derek is standing over her, blood up to his wrists, splattered across his face in tiny crimson constellations.

All that red makes Stiles’ insides go liquid, and he presses Derek against the bathroom door with shaking hands to lick away the scarlet speckles from his skin.

He only wishes he’d been around to see Derek slide the knife in.

-

There’s a girl hitchhiking, and Stiles knows he’s been spending too much time with Derek when he feels something tighten in his gut, instinct and desire and _fuck_ , no. He plans, he plans everything, there’s no room in his routine for picking up some random girl on the side of the road.

But she’s standing there with her hand out at the ramp to the interstate and all he can think about is the way she’ll look laid out on his bed, pale wrists wrapped in black phone cord and blood pooling in the hollows of her stomach.

All he can think about is the way Derek will look when he sees her like that, wrecked and wanting.

-

Her name is Lydia, from San Francisco, goes to Cal Tech. Stiles is playing the geeky college kid for her, and Lydia’s flirting a bit, twisting her hair around her finger in tight circles, talking about how she’s taking a break from her thesis to go visit a friend in New York.

She’s pretty too, in a general way: soft skin, long hair, big eyes. Nothing he’s never seen before (nothing he’s never destroyed before) but something about her makes him think of Derek, of the girl in the bathroom in Lawrence, of how much he wants to watch Derek work.

“Aren’t you afraid you might get picked up by someone weird?” Stiles asks as he drives towards the motel.

“I have pretty good instincts,” Lydia says.

Stiles laughs; god, he can’t wait to see the look on her face when he takes her down. “You must have, to make it this far.”

“Yeah,” she says and smiles, white teeth between blood-red lipstick, “you seem like a good guy too.”

Her hair is tight around her finger, cutting off the circulation, and Stiles can’t look away from where it’s turning bright red. He thinks of all the things that are going to turn her skin that colour later, and presses down on the gas.

Oh _yeah_ , this is going to be good.

-

Derek comes back from his run, sweaty and unsatisfied. There’re no good bars nearby without CCTV, and he doesn’t want to have to drive further afield. It’s been nearly a week since he last got a chance to kill anyone – it’s longer than he normally goes, but he can already feel the way his blood is thrumming, the tension rising in him.

But when he gets through the door, Stiles pins him too it, body strong against his. He struggles for a second because _shit_ , Stiles is trying to kill him again, until he realises that Stiles doesn’t have a weapon. He’s naked except his boxers, rutting hard against Derek’s hip.

“I got you a present,” he mumbles into Derek’s mouth, grinding down.

Derek lets Stiles hump him, looking over his shoulder when he ducks his head to bite Derek’s neck. There’s a girl on the bed, naked except for her underwear, gagged and bound, tears sliding down the sides of her face. She struggles when Derek meets her eyes, whimpers slipping out from behind the cloth stuffed into her mouth.

This is exactly what he likes, _she’s_ exactly what he likes – Stiles has obviously been paying a lot closer to attention to Derek than he’s been letting on.

He wraps a hand in Stiles’ hair and tugs. Stiles’ head comes up quickly, eyes fluttering as he leans into Derek’s touch. God he looks incredible, hot and desperate, hips bucking up when Derek yanks at the silky strands between his fingers.

“This is for me?” Derek can’t help asking, because this is nothing he’d ever expected, certainly not from Stiles.

Stiles looks up at him in a way Derek’s never seen before, happy and kind of gentle, before it slips into something smug, so _so_ smug. Then he’s yanking Derek’s shirt off, running his hands all over Derek’s chest, feeling along the ridges of his muscles, pressing kisses along Derek’s skin.

“All for you,” he says, nuzzling his face into Derek’s neck. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

It forces a laugh from Derek, because if there’s one thing he’s learnt, it’s that Stiles never does anything for anyone except himself. But if Stiles answering grin is anything to go by, that’s not entirely true, at least not any more.

“Thank you,” Derek murmurs softly, something like gratitude clogging his throat. No one’s ever done something like this for him before, not even Kate.

Stiles just pulls away from him, dragging him across the room until they’re at the foot of the bed. He produces a knife and Derek can’t help rolling his eyes because it’s his favourite, the razor-sharp Bowie he keeps in the bottom of his bag to be used on special occasions. Of course Stiles knows about it, of course he went through Derek’s things to find it.

The girl is really struggling now, the black cord of the phone making her pale skin flush red where it digs in. There’s sweat glistening across her skin and her pupils are blown wide. She’s perfect, and Derek can’t help the contentment that settles in his stomach as Stiles’ hands slide around his waist and he presses himself against Derek’s back, grinding against him a little.

It’s nice to have someone there who gets him, who understands all the dark, twisted parts of him that he hides from the world. Because Stiles has them too, probably even more than Derek, and he needs someone to understand him just as badly.

It’s not love, because neither of them are entirely capable of it.

It’s certainly not trust, because Derek doesn’t trust Stiles, not even slightly. He’s seen how fickle Stiles is, how unpredictable. He’s ruthless, dangerous, and Derek knows that one day Stiles will turn on him and he’s not sure which one of them will make it out alive.

But today is not that day.

For now, Derek lets Stiles shuffle them forward until they’re standing over the girl on the bed and wrap his hand over Derek’s around the hilt of the knife.

They raise the blade together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think Derek and Kate were partners, kind of a Bonnie and Clyde type, except you know, _serial killers_. And Derek thought he was in love with her, even though he doesn't really know how to love, because she showed him everything he was missing, completely changed his life.  
>  Then in Chicago the police were on to them and Kate abandoned him, probably even called in an anonymous tip on him, because she always puts herself first. And Derek wasn't heartbroken, not really, but he finds that it's harder for him to control himself without someone by his side, someone to keep control of him.  
> Then when Stiles shows up at first he's like shit, this kid is quite literally gonna be the death of me, and then it's like yay, murder buddy! 
> 
> This is the last part, sorry guys, but me and Zaria did have a chat in the comments if you want to know how it all ends. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I said I was done with this. Guess not.

There’s a splash of red behind Derek’ ear: a line of stars, a swirl of galaxies. Stiles wants to map them with his tongue, let the taste of sweat and blood wash over his tongue. He licks his lips; they’re cracked from hours standing under the brutal Texas sun.

“What do you want, Stiles?” Derek asks, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Stiles smiles, all teeth, but he doesn’t speak. Instead he leans against the doorframe and watches Derek scrub the dirt from his hands, the length of his forearms. The water in the sink is turning a murky brown.

“What?” Derek repeats, something wary on his face as he watches Stiles lurking.

Stiles tilts his head, takes him in, from his bare feet on the ugly checkerboard linoleum to the sweat glistening on his brow. He shifts, slides forward to put his arms around Derek’s waist. He noses at the soft skin of Derek’s neck, the tufts of hair at the base of his skull; he drags his mouth up the muscle until it’s a hair’s breadth from the first red star.

Beneath his hands, Derek tenses. “What are you doing?” he asks, eyes locked onto Stiles’ in the mirror.

Stiles doesn’t answer, just darts his tongue out for a taste: salt, metal, the faintest hint of soap from the shower this morning. He watches the way Derek’s eyelids flutter delicately, like a butterfly flapping its wings.

“Stiles,” he whispers, head tilting a little. “I have to clean up.”

Stiles shakes his head, laps at Derek’s skin again. His hands creep under the worn fabric of Derek’s tank, skidding across the ridges of his stomach, until they hit denim, a buckle. It opens with a clink and Derek’s head drops back onto Stiles’ shoulder.

“What’re you gonna do?” Derek mumbles, words tickling the underside of Stiles’ jaw.

Stiles shushes him, hands dipping under denim, under boxers, sliding over hot flesh. One stroke, two, and Derek presses back, rubbing, pressing; Stiles smothers his hiss in the soft skin of Derek’s neck. He pushes on Derek’s jeans until they start to slip, until they slither to the floor.

“You want this?” he asks. Derek can only nod.

Stiles grins: in the mirror it looks feral. He tightens his hand around Derek’s dick and strokes. It’s one of Stiles’ favourite things: quick and dirty hand jobs, and he knows how to get Derek off, knows all of Derek’s buttons, has learnt them all in the last sixth months, in truck stop bathrooms and the backseats of cars.

“Harder?” he asks when Derek writhes, desperate.

“Harder.” Derek jerks his head, lips dragging rough up the muscle of Stiles’ neck. “C’mon, _please_.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. He thinks of Derek: the way he heaved the girl out of the backseat of his car, the flex of muscle when he held her down in the dirt, the look in his eyes when the blood began to spill. The man falling apart in his arms is a far cry from that man; his wild, vicious man.

“Open your eyes,” he says, voice low and dirty in Derek’s ear as he twists, pulls. Derek’s eyelids flutter; when they open, his pupils are blown. He looks drugged. “Come on, Derek,” Stiles coos, “Come on, look at yourself.”

Derek lifts his head slowly, eyes snapping to his reflection: the flush crawling up his neck and along his cheeks, the slick line of his lower lip, Stiles peering over his shoulder like a ghoul.

“Like what you see?” Derek’s head bobs, eyes drooping when Stiles tugs a little harder. “Me too. Maybe we should watch.” There’s a noise: a choked-off whimper and Stiles laughs, breathy. “Hmm, you’d like that. I could make you. Make you come watching yourself.” Derek jerks; Stiles grins. “Maybe next time.”

He starts to stroke, hand tightening around Derek’s dick, and Derek’s head rolls, lolls, the long line of his neck exposed. Stiles leans in, laps at the skin, nips at the flesh until Derek is moaning, hips rolling up into Stiles’ fist faster and faster. His hands brush along Stiles’ arms, tan against the pale skin, twitching and grasping. Stiles digs his teeth in a little more and Derek’s breath hitches, whole body jerking in Stiles’ grip.

“Please,” he whispers. “Stiles, you have to –”

Stiles bites down, blood stinging the tip of his tongue, and Derek shoots all over his hand, splashing up over his stomach in long streaks of white. He shakes, twitching for a long moment; Stiles gentles him with soft touches and quiet words.

Eventually, when Derek has stopped trembling, Stiles mouths at his ear, asks, “You good?”

Derek nods, almost a dead weight in his arms. “I’m good,” he mumbles. “What about you? What d’you want?”

Stiles smiles, glances up to see the way they’re intertwined together. He presses into Derek, shoves him forward until his hips bang against the sink, bites hard at the back of Derek’s neck.

“You know what I want,” he says, laughing as Derek moans. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m going to take good care of you.”


End file.
